The Moonshawl: A Wraeththu Mythos Novel (28 page)

‘Nevermore,’ he responded,
grinning, but clearly to show me he knew that quote from a very ancient poem.

‘Well, without more preamble,
and supposing you bring no dire omens, please come in.’

He walked past me into the tower,
looked around, no doubt reminiscing about previous visits.

‘I doubt it’s changed much,’ I
said.

He ignored that remark. ‘Brought
you something.’

‘Come upstairs.’ I began to head
for the stairs, then paused. I went back to the door, removed the key from the
hook just beside it and locked it, leaving the key in the lock. Nytethorne gave
me a quizzical look. ‘Don’t worry. You’re not a prisoner. It’s just that
Wyvachi tend to charge in here without knocking. I’m not sure it’s a good idea
any of them see you here.’

‘I understand.’

I took him into the friendly
kitchen, feeling the living room would be too intimate, and somewhat imprinted
with memories of Rinawne, never mind recollections of Rey for Nytethorne.
‘Would you like tea?’

‘Yes. Please.’ He sat down in
what I assumed was the chair he’d always taken at that table. We are such
creatures of habit. He had a heavy hessian bag with him, embroidered with
stylised willow trees. The work was exquisite.

‘Did one of your hara make
that?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘All of it, yes.’

‘Beautiful work.’

‘Grow flax. A lot of it. Make
dyes too.’ He smiled and withdrew from the bag a package, bound in fine linen –
no doubt also of Whitemane manufacture – which he unwrapped. There were
letters, not many, but perhaps more precious than what Rinawne had shown me.
‘You asked,’ he said.

‘I hope it wasn’t difficult...
dangerous...’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not
under lock and key. Knew where to look. Mossamber keeps things neat, so he can
lay hands on anything, any time.’

I couldn’t wait. While the
kettle was boiling, I sat down and drew the fragile papers to me greedily. The
first one was clearly in response to a missive Mossamber must’ve made to
Malakess, after he’d been informed the Wyvachi would be the ruling phyle in the
area.

Greetings Mossamber,

Thank you for your letter, which was brought to me this morning. I
understand your position on the matter of division of land and power, but trust
that with my assistance all can be resolved to a degree of mutual satisfaction.
As I’ve said to the Wyvachi, the future of Wraeththu as a whole must be the
only consideration, and what will work best for bringing order, routine and
stability to your locality.

I know it is difficult to put away human notions
so soon after inception, but ask you to step back and consider things
impartially. I know also you have suffered, as have countless others in our
struggles to establish ourselves and heal this world. Your suffering is no less
valid to me than any other har’s in my care.

It is my opinion, and that of my fellow
commanders, that Kinnard and Medoc har Wyvachi are the natural leaders in the
Gwyllion area and surrounding lands. At one time you were brothers in arms, and
I ask you to look into your heart and rediscover that amity you once enjoyed.
Remember you share a mutual grief, however you might view it. I shall see to it
that the Whitemanes will be given all that they require in order to run their
own domain, but under the overall leadership of the Wyvachi.

I consider it my duty not to leave this area
until the matter of leadership is settled. I will remain here as arbiter until
that occurs.

In blood,

Malakess Har Sulh

First Commander of the West

I wondered how Mossamber had responded to that. Not
in a particularly cooperative way, I imagined. There were several more letters,
almost repeating the same thing but in different words. Mossamber must’ve
questioned everything, the dominion of every corner of land, the division of
the tiniest of spoils. I could almost hear Malakess’s patience fraying, as the
letters became shorter and more abrupt.

Such as:

My dear Mossamber,

I think we have covered this ground too many times. Kinnard has
already agreed that the spring in the copse of Moon’s Acre shall be yours.
Please don’t mention this again.

Malakess

And then, when things really were becoming too much
for him:

Mossamber,

The thoroughfares throughout the Gwyllion area, excepting the roads
to your respective domains, are communally owned and will be maintained by the
Gwyllion Assembly, via tithes and labour from the population. I thought this
was made clear at our last meeting. It is neither acceptable nor convenient for
the Whitemanes to have their own private roads across common land.

It is your choice not to accept a position on the
Assembly, when to my mind you should do so. Then you would not have to write to
me over these trivial matters but could take part, firsthand, in any
discussions and decisions. Please address any further enquiries of this nature
to Kinnard har Wyvachi or to the Assembly.

Malakess

But
then, as I’d hoped, came the treasure. And because the wound it addressed still
rilled with blood, Malakess’s tone was gentle.

My dear Mossamber,

Rest assured I will not take the Wyvachi’s part in this dilemma. I
have already informed Kinnard that as Peredur’s chesnari any decisions
concerning him are yours, in the absence of him being able to make decisions
himself.

But please be mindful of the fact that Peredur
also means a lot to Kinnard and Medoc and those who were incepted with them.
Their request is not to slight or anger you, but to assuage the grief they feel
themselves. I know it is hard, if not impossible in the rawness of sorrow, to
put aside human feelings at this time. This goes for all of you concerned. But
as your commander, all I can advise is that you attempt to find release among
your hara, the comfort you need. However harsh this might sound, I wish for a
swift resolution. His wounds cannot be healed, my friend. You know that and it
has to be faced.

I would like to say that in the short time I knew
Peredur, I found him to be a profoundly spiritual har, with limitless generosity,
wisdom and ability. What befell him was a sore loss to our kind as, like you, I
believe he had a wondrous future ahead of him. I can only imagine the pain his
fate has caused you. You have a lot of work ahead of you, Mossamber, and have a
duty to the hara in your care. You need to mourn before you can take up your
life again.

If there is anything you need from me, please
ask.

In blood,

Malakess

That was the last letter. After I’d read it, I
placed it on the table. Nytethorne had already seen to making the tea – he knew
where everything was kept. Now he sat opposite me again, his arms folded on the
table top.

‘The wounds must’ve been... very
bad,’ I said, ‘if they couldn’t be healed by the hienamas, or Peredur’s own
harish body.’

Nytethorne nodded. ‘Very bad,’
he said. ‘Hara heal well, but none can grow back what’s lost.’

I closed my eyes. ‘Dear Aru.’ I
knew he wouldn’t give me specific details if I asked. I could tell simply from
his demeanour it had cost him to bring these letters to me, and he was
uncomfortable revealing what little he had. A part of him hadn’t wanted to do
it.

‘Mossamber took him home to
die,’ I said. ‘That’s the truth, isn’t it?’

Nytethorne nodded almost
imperceptibly, his gaze on the table.

‘Did it... did it take long?’

He glanced up at me, his
expression pained.

‘I’m sorry to ask, Nytethorne.
I’m trying to keep it as simple as I can.’

‘Some things never die,’ he said
and then, in a soft melodious voice, he chanted, ‘...On this home by Horror
haunted – tell me truly, I implore – Is there –
is
there balm in Gilead?
– tell me, – tell me, I implore. Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.’

He looked so sad, I reached out
impulsively to take hold of his hands. He did not resist. ‘Thank you. That’s a
beautiful way to put it.’

He squeezed my fingers, then let
me go, folding his hands away.

‘You like poetry?’ I asked.
‘Even human poetry?’

‘Art is beyond human or har,’ he
replied, shrugging. ‘It survives.’

Peredur had died so long ago,
and yet to the Whitemanes, apparently even more so than to the Wyvachi, his
death seemed recent. I could tell this by Nytethorne’s sorrow, even though he
had never met Peredur. He must have been an amazing har to have had such an
impact. Mossamber still loved him, after all this time, and having created
harlings with others. He had passed on the memory of his beloved through time.
It survived. How could this cherished thing be malign? That was the mystery of
it, really.

‘Nytethorne, I can’t thank you
enough for bringing these letters to me.’

He shrugged. ‘Thought about it.
Decided if it’s meant, it’s meant. You’ll release us. If not, nothing changes.
Seemed worth the risk.’

He held my eyes, his expression
both inscrutable and plain. Yet there was a table between us, and to rise from
my seat and cross that distance would break the spell, I was sure of it.
‘Nytethorne,’ I said softly.

He closed his eyes, his brow
furrowed, his head dipping towards his chest. ‘Food is eaten, it is gone,’ he
said. ‘Soon not even taste remains.’ He looked up at me. ‘I want to be more
than food.’

I became aware that, in his own
strange way, Nytethorne felt the same way I did. For him too, glorious sunsets
had become grey, cold dawns, a listless swamp where nothing lived. Even to
approach a har seemed fraught with the danger that this
blight
would
devour the blissful landscape, leaving only barrenness behind. And regrets.

‘I know,’ I said.

‘Yes.’ He smiled wanly. ‘To look
is enough. To
be.
’

‘In the early days we were
taught that love is canker,’ I said.

‘Hush!’ Nytethorne said.

‘But I want you to hear it. My
own teacher, who claimed to have been taught by Thiede himself, said that we
must not succumb to petty human emotions but strive for something greater. I
wonder if somehow many of us have lost sight of that.’

‘Maybe teachers were wrong.
We’re not capable.’

I smiled at him. ‘Well,
you
should
be, as you’re pureborn, and not a mess of bad memories and traumas like us
incepted hara.’

‘Raised by them, though.’ He
stared at me in silence for some moments. ‘Don’t feel pureborn. Wonder if any
of us can, my kin.’ Again a pause. ‘Wyva and me – could never have it. Weren’t
allowed. The moment we sucked air, we were old, as old as the earth.’

‘Are you saying it wasn’t just
the Wyvachi...?’

‘No! Saying nothing.’

I dared to murmur. ‘Show me. In
your breath.’

‘No.’ He put his hands against
his face and I longed to go to him, comfort him, but knew I mustn’t.

Instead, I said, ‘I’m going to
see Medoc in a couple of days.’

Nytethorne raised his head. ‘You
think he’ll speak?’

‘I don’t know, but he has
distance, Nytethorne. He might feel able to.’

‘When?’

‘Calasday, next week.’ I
hesitated then said, ‘perhaps we should meet afterwards, some time.’

He nodded vaguely. ‘No doubt
will.’ He stood up, gathered up the letters and replaced them in his bag.

I stood up to see him out, but
he said, ‘Don’t trouble yourself. Know the way.’ He smiled then, came to me and
kissed my cheek. ‘Care for yourself.’

‘I will.’

How strange it was not to obey
harish instinct and reach for him, draw his body close. But I knew he would
only pull away and I’d risk breaking some rare magic between us. I sat down and
listened to him leave the tower. Afterwards, there was a great silence, the
world stilled.

I knew I couldn’t leave the situation with Rinawne
as it was, and that I would have to be the peacemaker. The day following
Nytethorne’s visit to me, Pelfday, I thought I should go to the Mynd. Wyva
liked it when I stayed for dinner at the weekends, and we could discuss the
Reaptide festival. The weather had continued to heat up, making the air indoors
stifling and unbearable. Even with all my tower windows open, I could barely
breathe. Evening brought some respite, as the air would cool and a soft breeze
steal across the land. On Pelfday, the sky began to darken around six o’clock.
A storm was coming to land. I hoped this would freshen and clear the air.

I planned to ride over to the
Mynd around seven, since the family would generally eat around eight on this
day. I pottered about the kitchen, gathering my notes together and stuffing
them into my satchel. Then suddenly, the whole tower shook as the mightiest
peal of thunder I’d ever heard exploded overhead. I jumped in shock, and it
felt as if I was thrown across the room, because the next moment I’d collided
with the cooking range, banging my hip sharply upon it. The storm had charged
towards us, faster than I thought possible.

Rubbing my hip, I went to the
windows to shut them. Outside, the sky was dark purple and green, and the air
felt as if it was made of lead, so heavily did it weigh upon me. There was no
rain. Not yet. I stood at the window, mesmerised by the peculiar light, the
prowling thunder, which now growled menacingly in a lower tone. The lightning,
when it came, at first crawled uneasily amid the clouds, illuminating them in a
sickly light. Then, as if a dehar of storms had thrown a trident, a triple fork
of immense size was hurled from the sky. I’m sure I heard it land with a mighty
crack somewhere in the direction of the Mynd. My first thought was:
the
house!
I grabbed my satchel and ran down the stairs, wondering even as I
did so whether it was sensible to go outside. This storm wanted to injure and
damage; I felt this strongly.